


Chandelier

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2015-06-22
Packaged: 2018-04-05 13:36:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4181802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thranduil rescues his son from Smaug’s not-so-vile clutches.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chandelier

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NagaNyah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NagaNyah/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for afangirlfromhell’s “Thranduil/Smaug” prompt on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Thranduil rides faster than he ever has. He pushes his elk to her limit, his robes and hair streaming behind him, the wind cold against his face. There wasn’t even time to don his armour, though there would’ve been little point to it. Even Elven steel is no match against a _dragon_ , and all Thranduil can hope is that somehow, someway, that giant beast is in a benevolent mood. 

Tauriel’s already at the base of the mountain when Thranduil arrives, a tunnel opened up behind her, not natural, but blown away where only a true monster could’ve burst through. The debris is everywhere, but the path is clear enough to walk through, and Thranduil knows exactly why it’s been cleared. Feren, the third member of their hunting party, came to him immediately while Tauriel chased after his son. _He wants to speak to you,_ Feren said, and Thranduil had to school his breath to still come out even. 

His son, his heir, the little leaf he’s so staunchly protected, has been snatched away in the claws of a fire drake as big as his chambers, And Thranduil’s eyes bore into Tauriel as he dismounts his elk. He was told to come alone, and he did—there was no time to ready his armies, and even if there was, he would only lose hundreds of lives in the time it took Smaug to turn Legolas to ash. Tauriel is tense, but there are no tears in her eyes, and he thinks there would be if she’d lost her beloved prince. 

He stalks towards her, his elk skittish amongst the jagged rocks, and he demands to know, “Is there any news?”

Tauriel takes a shaking breath. She answers, “As far as I can tell, the dragon is sincere, and Prince Legolas has not been harmed.” Thranduil almost snorts. He can hardly trust a dragon to be _sincere_ , especially with something so important. But he sweeps past her all the same; dragons, at least, are creatures of dialogue. There is a chance, if a minor one, that they may escape this together. 

If not... Thranduil has no wish to rule a land where he can’t protect his own child. Tauriel stays outside as he descends into the darkness, the air already thick with the stench of _dragon_.

It’s a long way down, then a long way up, over beaten stairs and under crumbling arches, across cracked bridges that he’s careful to be feather-light atop. The only light is that of the occasional fire, flickering in black braziers along the walls and spottily dancing in rubble, where a wall of flame must’ve swept through not long ago. In the distance, the hazy glow of red becomes brighter down each corridor, until Thranduil can see the glimmering silver of his own robes as his feet rush over Dwarven stone. It’s stiflingly hot inside, but there’s nothing he can do about it. He moves faster than he would in battle. At any moment, Smaug could grow bored of waiting, and Thranduil will suffer a loss far greater than the white jewels of his people.

He knows when he reaches the right chamber. He comes out into an open space with railed stairs and a golden glow bouncing off the walls, the floor, far beneath him, comprised of coins and precious stones. The air is suffocating. He’s breathing thick and hard, and his clothes are clinging to his body—it’s very difficult to make an elf sweat, but dragon fire will do it. He can see a smudge of pure crimson in the distance, half buried in the treasure, and he redoubles his efforts, racing down the steps and fighting the urge to scream his son’s name.

When he finally hits the bottom, he doesn’t have to shout. Legolas is seated in the gold a dozen meters away, his posture oddly languid for the victim of a monster’s kidnapping. His legs are folded elegantly beneath him, and he looks demurely up at his father, his white-blond hair clinging to his face where the sweat has matted it, his eyes hazy but _alive_. His clothes are damp: it looks as though a cloud of steam has wafted over him and beaded through the fabric. His chest rises and falls heavily with each breath, but nowhere is he torn or showing blood. At the sight of Thranduil, Legolas dons a short note of surprise that cuts deep into Thranduil’s chest—like Legolas didn’t think Thranduil would come. 

Thranduil did. Now that he’s here, he doesn’t know quite what to do. He summons his usual regal veneer and turns a steadfast glare to the dragon’s great muzzle, nestled lazily atop the coins. Smaug does nothing as Legolas pushes to his feet and walks through the gold. As soon as he’s within reach, Thranduil snatches his wrist and turns him away from Smaug, though Thranduil’s own back would do little good as a shield if Smaug chose to incinerate them. Thranduil’s already suspicious—surely, Smaug could’ve done so already. But Smaug is silent as Thranduil slips his fingers under Legolas’ chin, lifting it up, then turning his handsome face from side to side. There is no visible damage, but Thranduil still hisses, “Were you harmed?”

“No,” Legolas answers, with the slight shake of his head in Thranduil’s hand. 

Smaug stirs. A cacophony of little clinking noises follows the coins scattering about him, and Smaug shakes off his towering muzzle, scattering gold trinkets that had rested on him. In a deep, booming voice, he drawls, “I would never harm one of your own, Thranduil, king of elves. Even in taking your prince, no elf was hurt.”

That means nothing to Thranduil, who regards Smaug with tense expectation, though Legolas says gently behind him, “It is true, Ada.” Thranduil simply lifts a hand to hush him. 

Though he could never reach the volume of a dragon, Thranduil calls just as harshly, “Then why did you take him?”

Smaug’s long jaw twists into a smirk, the look in his eyes clear on any animal. Hunger, but not, Thranduil thinks, for food. When Smaug speaks, his tone is nearly cooing. “So _you_ would come.”

Tendrils of steam puff out of Smaug’s nostrils, stopping just short of where Thranduil’s stands and twisting up into the Lonely Mountain’s natural ceiling. Legolas makes a small gasping noise, and Thranduil can feel the shiver in his wrist, Thranduil’s grip on him still firm. He must’ve had to suffer such heat, and for that, Thranduil is sorry. He will have to rethink letting Legolas leave the boundaries of their kingdom for many years to come. When Thranduil says nothing, waiting on more explanation, Smaug sighs, “You are a tricky one to catch unguarded, Elf King. I would’ve had to crush many of your people to take you.”

Yet he didn’t. Because of Thranduil, no elves have suffered at this dragon’s hands, and they still haven’t now. He voices his only concern. “If I am the one you want, will you allow my son to leave?”

Smaug’s golden lies flicker over Thranduil’s shoulder, and the point of his tongue slips between his scaled lips, tracing the edges of giant teeth. Thranduil can hear Legolas’ reedy breath, and for a moment, the thickness in the air seems to spike, wrapping around them like silk-soft chains. But Smaug purrs, “Yes.”

“Ada,” Legolas starts, but Thranduil will have none of it.

He looks at Legolas, ignoring the worry across his son’s flushed face, and he hisses, “Go.” It’s a command, as much from a father as a king. Legolas’ mouth opens. It’s clear that he doesn’t want to leave Thranduil behind, but Thranduil gives him no choice. It’s plain to Thranduil that the effects of a dragon’s company have already taken their toll on Legolas. His pupils are dilated and his lips are slightly moist and a tad swollen, as though from being kissed or bitten, likely the latter. Just in case this is the last time they see one another, Thranduil allows himself to soften just for a moment, and he lifts his fingers to brush some of the fallen strands back behind Legolas’ ear, tucking them lovingly into place. But he says nothing else. Legolas closes his perfect blue eyes, and a shiver seems to run through him. But he steps away, his hand falling out of Thranduil’s. 

He walks to the steps, and to Thranduil’s great relief, Smaug allows him to go. Thranduil watches Legolas all the way until he’s out of sight, far above, having stopped too many times to look back. Alone, Thranduil turns to Smaug. 

The dragon moves closer. One hulking paw climbs out of the coins, raking near to the base of the golden hill, his tail slithering along the floor and surrounding Thranduil, though he would have no escape anyway from the speed of fire. As unfazed as he can sound, Thranduil asks, “What did you want me for?”

Smaug chuckles. It’s a strange noise, whistled through too deep a throat, and it makes a shiver twist its way down Thranduil’s spine, though he stays standing tall. The flowers in his crown are likely dying with every moment he lingers; the heat is getting to him. It seeps into his robes and permeates against his skin, but he keeps his chin held high. Smaug comes closer still, until his snout is less than an arm’s length away from Thranduil’s chest. His great wings are folded at his sides, but if they were to beat, they’d probably be powerful enough to throw Thranduil aside. He’s not sure what answer he expects. 

Smaug purrs, low but powerful, “I’ve always been interested in beautiful things.” Thranduil’s breath catches. Smaug’s head tilts as though examining him, bright eyes tracing his slender form, normally so tall but made tiny next to the enormous beast before him. Smaug drawls, a hint of _lust_ now unmistakable in his voice, “Your son was quite a prize, but his father... you, my dear king of elves, are the greatest gem I have ever seen.”

Thranduil doesn’t want to react. But the desire seems to be radiating off of Smaug in droves, great waves of gnarled _want_ that snake around his body, threatening to pull him near. It isn’t sudden; he simply didn’t recognize that magic in the heat before—the intoxicating, raging pheromones of a _dragon_ , a magnificent creature beyond compare, as handsome as he is terrible. If Thranduil were a lesser man, nerves would undo him, but either way, he can’t help but be _flattered_ ; Smaug’s very hide is encrusted with millions of jewels; his tail alone would be worth more than Thranduil’s entire treasury. Yet he looks down as though Thranduil is the one glowing gold and worthy of true worship: a work of cherished art.

It takes Thranduil a moment to open his mouth. He has to fight not to open the seam of his robes—it’s _sweltering_ in Smaug’s domain, and Thranduil’s clothes hold too many layers. He can feel the flush along his face and fingers, coiling right to the tips of his ears; no part of him is safe from Smaug’s power. He has to force himself to coldly say, “I will not become a part of your hoard.” His voice comes out more hoarse than he means it. He’s faced so many trials in his life, but this... this is beyond compare.

No one else has come this close to this dragon and survived. Yet Smaug doesn’t snap at the rejection, only glints with interest, murmuring in his exotic, too-sensual voice, “No? Perhaps a lover, then...”

Thranduil’s entire body seems to stiffen. Somehow, he didn’t expect Smaug to quite say _that_ , not in that way, and even as he struggles for a response, he can see the pointed tail lift in the corner of his eye. It scoops up a string of white jewels, taken from Thranduil’s people, and unblemished from its time amidst Dwarven gold. The tail creeps closer, rising, lined with many spikes but careful as it twists around Thranduil’s feet, tracing up his body. He turns his face away, and the cool surface of the gems presses into his cheek. It’s a stark contrast to the heat of Smaug’s scales, both equally hard. Smaug allows the jewels to drop, but his tail stays loosely draped around Thranduil’s body, and the tip idly runs back through Thranduil’s hair. 

“A union between us is only natural,” Smaug purrs, almost an erotic moan. “Two magnificent, immortal beings as we are... who else is worthy of a _dragon_ , if not a _king_ , not a flimsy mortal fool but a pretty forest flower, who blooms such lovely seed?” 

Another elf is best for an elf, but who’s left for a dragon, Thranduil doesn’t know. It’s becoming difficult to think, with the fog in his mind. He is worthy of a dragon. He still mutters, “We are too different...”

“That is not so,” Smaug sighs. This time, the tail’s tip slips around Thranduil’s neck, coiling tight and thick, so that Thranduil has to tilt his chin up, only giving Smaug more access. His arms are limp at his sides, pinned not by magic but his own inability to resist Smaug’s pleasure. The tail completes a loop, and the end presses carefully against Thranduil’s lips, though he keeps them firmly sealed and resist the urge to _kiss_ it. Smaug’s paw lifts, and he rises, neck unfolding to block out Thranduil’s sky. There is no shadow, because Smaug’s belly is shining and reflecting the ocean of treasure. Bent over Thranduil, a long claw presses just between his shoulder blades, not quite hard enough to cut. 

It travels sensually down his spine, and Thranduil’s breath holds, wondering if Smaug will simply slice his clothes away and fuck him, somehow, right here amidst the gold. He feels more drunk on Smaug’s _power_ than wine has ever made him. 

Yet he murmurs, small and soft, “Do you mean to take me by force?” It wouldn’t take much. Not for a beast like this, with Thranduil already sweat-slicked and flushed and hard within his too-tight robes. When he set out from his home, he never thought he would buy Legolas’ freedom with his body. 

But Smaug withdraws. His tail slides away, leaving Thranduil’s skin ice-cold by contrast, his robes all still intact. Smaug settles back down, lowering his face once again so that Thranduil can see his eyes, and he says clearly, “No.” Thranduil almost experiences a flash of disappointment—it would’ve been like no other. Smaug continues, “But you will take no jewels, either. Now you know my terms. I am patient. You may return when, and if, you wish to do so.”

Thranduil can hardly believe his ears. He dips his head in understanding, though he’s not accustomed to being on this end of a bow. In a dragon, he will admit he’s met his match. Smaug’s already turning, crawling back into his hoard. 

And Thranduil has one torturous second of hesitation before he turns to leave, conflicted. That first step towards the stairs is harder than it should be. The smell and heat are as strong as ever, and worse still, he knows that once he leaves this mountain, he’ll never be propositioned by so powerful a creature again. To have a dragon in his arsenal would be... _extraordinary._

The only pull to the outside is the chance to breathe clear air. He leaves much slower than when he came in, but he won’t allow himself to look back. When he steps out of the shadows, out into the light of the sun, he takes in a heady breath and can barely stop himself from swaying—his head is spinning. Tauriel is down the mountain’s slope next to his elk, but Legolas is right at the mouth, and he comes instantly to his father’s side. 

They speak no words at first, though Thranduil is sure the love must be plain in his eyes, even if he can’t say it. He’s overwhelmingly pleased that Legolas is safe. He gives Legolas another look, truly unscathed, now coming down from the twisted nature of the Dwarves’ abandoned home. He’s as pure and handsome as he always is, rivaled only, apparently, by the man that made him. He would look exquisite in their gems of old. 

The thought of weaving crystals into Legolas’ hair is what finally tips the scales for Thranduil, who’s been on the edge all along. He _wants_ those jewels, but more so, he wants to be treasured, and it’s been far, far too long since he felt the pleasant embrace of a worthy partner. 

This is never how he thought it would come about. But it’s happened, and it’s too late now to pretend he has no option. He reaches to cup Legolas’ cheek, and he moves forward, placing a chaste kiss to Legolas’ forehead. He can feel the surprise in Legolas’ body, but they’ve been through enough today to earn that small divulgence. Thranduil murmurs against him, “I will return shortly.”

Legolas looks as conflicted as Thranduil feels, but he must understand. He doesn’t stop Thranduil from turning and descending back into the mountain, off to trade one fortune for another.


End file.
